The Shadows that Sought the Light
by rhead-a-holyc
Summary: He was Ron Weasley. She was Hermione Granger. He believed they could work. She didn't.


**QL: Round 8: Ballycastle Bats Keeper: Lou's headcanon:** **After Hugo went to Hogwarts, Hermione and Ron divorce**

* * *

The door to their bedroom slammed shut, and Ron slumped back on the couch. The months after Hugo had left for Hogwarts had been particularly rough on their marriage. With both children at Hogwarts for ten months, all that was left was the silence that had covered anything to do with their marriage like a blanket of dust.

There was nothing left to concentrate on but each other, yet their lives outside seemed to run in completely different circles—their only similarities being their children, their marriage, Harry, and the rest of the extended Weasley family.

Ron was trying his hardest, but he had never been as bright as Hermione. He couldn't learn whatever household charm she thought he needed in two days, like she often expected of him; he didn't know how to keep the house running on his own when Hermione was at an international meeting for a week—that was what his mother had done. Ron couldn't follow the lists of things Hermione left for him to do, because it always felt like being piled with a long list of homework—and everyone knew how bad he was at homework.

He didn't know what Hermione expected from him, but he knew that she expected too much. Perhaps she always had, Ron couldn't tell anymore. He just wanted Hermione to acknowledge the fact that he was trying, instead of complaining about all his failures.

The worst part was that Ron knew that he would do all of this again, just to marry Hermione, even if things were falling apart right now. Ron had liked Hermione for so long. Hermione had always been that nearly unattainable constant since Hogwarts; the fact that she had agreed to marry him years ago had been the best moment of his life—it still was.

He was Ron Weasley, after all, the boy who always stood in the shadows. She was Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of their age. Light and shadows rarely mixed well together

His eyes roved over the parchment again. Divorce papers. Hermione had insisted that it would be better for the both of them if they just went their own ways, but he had argued that it would be better if they talked about it—if they mutually agreed that splitting up was for the best. The decision would affect Rose and Hugo too, and Ron didn't want either blaming themselves for it.

Hermione would push for it no matter what he wanted, Ron knew that much. This wasn't going to be an argument that Ron would win, not that Ron won many arguments with Hermione, but it would be the one Ron knew he would regret losing the most.

Scanning through them told him what he already knew—the ink on Hermione's signature was already dry. Hermione would probably have to leave for another meeting soon, anyway. She rarely came home since she had been promoted, always busy with a meeting or event of some sort. Ron didn't think Hermione would notice the lack of his presence if he signed the parchment and disappeared.

Ron had run away once, though, and had promised himself never to do it again. He had promised himself that he would be a Gryffindor and face whatever problems head-on, but that had been incredibly easy to promise when the regret had filled him like an overflowing tub. How could he hold on now when Hermione had already given up?

It wasn't as if he would be missing much if they parted here. With Hermione being rarely home, even during holidays, Ron would be able to see Hugo and Rose as much as he wanted. He wouldn't be shouted at for any small mistake, nor would he be lectured over things he had never learned.

But—what had been Ron's fault in all of this? What had pushed Hermione so far that she didn't think she could continue living with him? What had made the rare days Hermione was at home so difficult?

Ron didn't know, and Hermione refused to answer him when he asked. Ron didn't want to bring it up with anyone else either, in case they hadn't noticed yet—Ron was certain he would be blamed for it anyway.

After holding on for so long, was it really okay to let Hermione go?

Ron didn't think so.

(He didn't want to.)

But Hermione did, and when had Ron ever been able to deny her?

When Hermione asked, Ron did. That was how it had always been—ever since Hogwarts. Harry and Ginny had laughingly called him 'whipped', but Ron had never cared.

Until now.

Until all of that was put at risk on what appeared to be a whim on Hermione's part. For the first time in his life, Ron wanted to understand. He wanted to understand Hermione. He wanted to understand this situation. He wanted to understand what had led to this very moment, to this decision that weighed so heavily on him.

The ink made a blot on the parchment as his hand quivered above it. Was he able to simply go through with this brazenly? Could he sign while he held his breath and wished he was doing anything other than ending his marriage with Hermione?

Could he sign knowing that this may be his biggest regret?

But… but it was for Hermione. It was for Hugo and Rose to stop seeing their parents argue all the time. It was for the both of them to grow a little, without the other—the last one was what Hermione had told him, and Ron wasn't entirely sure how to grow without Hermione.

Ron didn't know how to grow alone.

Perhaps that was what he was most afraid of. He had never been alone before, and he was selfishly holding onto Hermione so he wouldn't have to face the world on his own.

(Somehow, he didn't think that was it.)

He scribbled his name on the line quickly, his breath held as if expecting something to happen at the end of it.

Seeing his name at the end of the parchment felt final. It made it look like he had accepted his fate while his mind was still conflicted.

It was the end of the Hogwarts he knew. Everything that came now would be foreign territory.

Ron didn't know if he was okay with that yet, but he thought he could be.

He was a Gryffindor.

He could do this.


End file.
